Chapter Three
The North Lawn Negotiation
Poppy
The guest house is… charming.
That’s what I decide to call it because “a little haunted but in a quaint way” doesn’t look great in the client notes.
It’s tucked behind the main house, partially hidden by hydrangeas, with weathered white siding, green shutters, and a front porch that creaks when I shift my weight.
Inside, the floors are scuffed, the windows are sticky, and there’s a faint smell of old wood and lemon cleaner that reminds me of my grandmother’s attic.
But the bones are good.
There’s a wide farmhouse sink, built-in shelves filled with mismatched books, and a faded patchwork quilt folded neatly at the end of the bed. It could be magical with a little work—fresh paint, some flowers, and a scented candle or two.
I drop my bags by the door and do a quick mental inventory.
To-do list for the week:
Set up layout walk-through with Ivy and Mason.
Reconfirm all vendor arrival times.
Schedule the final dress fitting.
Final menu approval.
Avoid strangling the groom’s brother.
My phone buzzes. I glance at a text from Ivy.
IVY: Just posted the final countdown! I’m getting MARRIED!
I open her social media page and click through to her story. She’s in her kitchen, smiling big at the camera and surrounded by giant balloons.
The thing about Ivy is she’s not your typical influencer.
She started out documenting her grandmother’s recipes before dementia took them away—hand-pulled noodles, wontons with exactly thirteen folds, the secret to perfect Mapo tofu.
Real stories about food, family, and the stuff that gets lost between generations.
Now she has over thirteen million followers who tune in for Cooking with Nǎi Nai, even though her grandmother hasn’t cooked in two years.
She uses her platform to spotlight immigrant-owned restaurants, does fundraisers for Alzheimer’s research, and somehow makes meal prep look like meditation.
She’s not just an influencer; she’s someone who turned grief into community.
And she’s a lovely person, inside and out.
Which is why this wedding matters. It’s not just about the perfect photos or the viral moments. It’s about honoring the love story her followers have been rooting for since Mason first appeared in the background of her cooking videos, stealing dumplings and making her laugh.
I can’t mess this up.
It’s why I came out here early—this matters to me. It has to be perfect, not just for Ivy and Mason, but for me and my career.
I’m halfway through checking my phone when I hear a soft snort from the doorway.
I turn.
And there, standing just outside the screen door, is possibly the roundest dog I’ve ever seen.
She’s got short legs, shaggy fur, ears that stick out like fuzzy triangles, and some kind of vest velcroed snugly around her middle like a canine corset. Her face is part gremlin, part angel, and her entire vibe screams “emotional support animal with zero training and strong opinions.”
“Hi there,” I whisper, crouching slowly. “Do you live here?”
She snorts again, waddles closer, and rests her chin dramatically on the step.
I crack the door open.
“You’re not supposed to be here, are you?”
She blinks at me.
“Well, join the club.”
I reach out and give her a tentative scratch behind the ears. She melts instantly into a puddle of fluff and wheezing sighs, tail thumping once, then stopping as if that was too much effort.
“You’re perfect,” I tell her. “There’s no way he’s as grumpy as he acts if he owns you.”
She sneezes directly on my shoe.
I grab my planner, sit on the edge of the bed, and flip to today’s tab. The sun slants warm through the window, and for the first time since the airport, I feel like I can breathe.
The venue is beautiful, the clients are sweet, the dog situation is adorable, and I’ve survived worse than a prickly property owner. I’ve got this.
I smile down at the color-coded schedule.
And that’s when my phone buzzes.
IVY: Are you at the estate?? We have a MAJOR problem. Mason just told me HIS brOTHER is refusing to let us use the north lawn.
I blink.
The north lawn.
The one we mapped out together on Zoom. The one with the best light for photos. The one where the ceremony arch is supposed to go.
The one I just assumed was a done deal.
I glance out the window.
Dean Whitaker is back on his porch, a glass in one hand, reading something with his sleeves still rolled up like a catalog model for emotionally unavailable men.
I look down at the dog, still snoring at my feet.
“You and I are going to have to have a word with your human.”
I march.
No deep breaths. No calming affirmations. No “maybe he has a good reason” inner monologue.
I just march. Possibly because I’ve had the day from hell, possibly because I’m ready to go full-Karen over someone taking Ivy’s dream wedding spot.
Across the lawn, down the gravel path, back to the front porch of the man currently threatening to derail an entire wedding over a patch of grass.
He’s sitting in one of the porch chairs now, a glass of something dark in his hand, and a look on his face that says he’s been waiting for me to snap since the moment I arrived.
Well. Here I am.
“Hi,” I say, too brightly. “Do you have a minute?”
He sets the glass down with infuriating calm. “I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”
“Not unless you consider ceremony sabotage a social call.”
His brow lifts. “Sabotage?”
“Don’t play dumb,” I snap, climbing the steps. “The north lawn is the ceremony site. It’s in all the planning documents. Ivy approved it. Mason approved it. I approved it.”
“I didn’t approve it.”
I blink.
“You didn’t object when I mentioned it in the walk-through notes.”
“I don’t recall those notes including the phrase ‘please trample my lawn with folding chairs’.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say sweetly. “Did you want to host a wedding without any actual wedding things happening?”
He doesn’t flinch. “There are other parts of the property.”
“Not like that one. The light, the view—”
“—the sprinklers, the slope, the two massive tree roots that’ll trip someone’s grandmother.”
I stare at him.
He just stares back, calm and unreadable, like we’re in court and he’s waiting for me to present a better argument.
I take a breath, composing myself.
“This is really important to Ivy,” I say, softening. “It’s her dream spot. And it works. It works for the photos, for the acoustics, for the entire flow of the ceremony, from the parking to the—”
“No.”
It’s not harsh. Not loud. Just… final.
“Why?” I demand.
“Because I said so.”
“Oh, well that’s reasonable.”
He stands slowly, and for the first time, I realize how tall he is. Broad-shouldered and serious, his dark eyes cutting through me.
I steady myself by drawing a slow breath.
But Dean isn’t done. “I’ve already upped my liability insurance for the property. If someone eats it on that slope, I’m not footing the ER bill. Liability’s a little more complicated than ‘but the view is nice’.”
My hands are shaking.
He crosses his arms. “I’m not risking a twisted ankle and a three-year legal battle because someone wants a golden hour glow. If Ivy wants scenic, she can take a picture. My premiums say no.”
“Wow.” I take a step back, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing. “Great speech. I hope they don’t invite you to give one at the reception.”
“I didn’t want this wedding here,” he says, low and even. “But Mason asked, so I agreed. What I didn’t agree to is a stranger showing up and acting like she owns the place.”
My pulse spikes.
“I’m not trying to own anything. I’m trying to do my job.”
“Then do it somewhere else.”
I blink, the pressure of the whole event suddenly rising behind my ribs.
And I snap.
“If you’re so worried about your liability insurance, maybe you should keep a better eye on your dog.”
His brows draw together. “My dog?”
“She let herself into the guest house and is currently napping under the bed.”
He blinks once. “That’s not my dog.”
I stare at him. “She seemed pretty at home.”
“She visits,” he corrects. “Frequently. And without invitation.”
“Oh.”
He shrugs. “She prefers my rug to her actual home. I’ve given up arguing.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
Because that doesn’t even make sense.
He’s trying to tell me a ten-pound dog has broken in? Staked her claim? And there’s nothing he can do about it?
There’s a brief silence in which I have to reckon with the fact that I’ve just yelled at a man about a dog that isn’t his, after already yelling at him about grass.
We’re off to a great start.
“I’ll tell Ivy,” I mutter.
“I’m sure you will.”
I don’t say goodbye.
I spin on my heel, march back to the guest house, and only when I’ve slammed the door and dramatically flopped on the bed do I dial CeCe.
She answers on the first ring. “Oh no. What happened now?”
I stare at the ceiling. “He’s hot and horrible.”
“Be more specific.”
“The groom’s brother—Dean. He’s giving… brooding CEO thunderstorm energy.”
“Pssh,” CeCe makes a noise. “That’s nothing you can’t handle.”
I hope she’s right.